Locked
by Preminiscence
Summary: Sometimes amnesia has a purpose, Arthur has come to find. Sometimes forgetting yourself is the only way to keep yourself sane. AU Hetalia (still nations; human names).
1. Locked

_**A/N: **This is an AU of Hetalia - they are still nations, but it's an AU of the actual series in some significant ways that I'm sure you'll notice as you read._

_There is a pairing in here, but it's not a pairing fic - it's just part of the story. It's America x England, for confirmation._

_I change tenses part way through... and then change back. I could edit this, but... I like it._

_I also use their human names A LOT. If you don't like this (I know I used to not), then... to be honest it's crucial to the story, so..._

_Heh. Enjoy~_

(Also, I just noticed that I made two or three small typo mistakes upon my re-read of this; I've corrected one, but there's probably two more and as much as it's annoying me they'll remain until I get around to finding them again.)

* * *

**Locked**

The American across from him kept staring. It was rather annoying, all things considered, to be thus observed - but what could he do? He knew he was American because he kept ordering obscene amounts of fast food at regular intervals in that annoying tone of his, and he never moved from that spot - Arthur had also never seen him before, although perhaps this familiar feeling that accompanied looking at him was because of paranoia over being watched. The staff all seemed to know him - and him, coincidentally, although he'd got out from the hospital (well, less of a hospital, more of a recovery home) that he'd apparently been cooped up in since they learnt he had...

It wasn't quite fair to call it _amnesia_, not completely, because he _could_ remember some things. Like how to speak or what he liked, or-but there was this incessant nagging at the back of his mind, irritating and constant, like there was something _beyond_ what he'd lost.

Almost as if a connection that he'd once had had been severed, or... something.

There was an albino man beside him - apparently from the hospital too, someone to check up on him. He was... familiar too, but something told Arthur that he hadn't been there some times when he should have or wasn't or - bloody hell.

Arthur sighs, melancholy without knowing why, and reaches a hand up to touch the side of his head. It stings, slightly, although he remembers it hurting more - he's not sure how, didn't they fix this, or was that a dream too? A forgotten memory? His other hand lifts his cupped tea - horrible, terrible stuff. Needs sweetening, is of no particular quality, not like the tea he's used to from India-

"Huh." He frowns, something tingling in the back of his skull. "India," he finds himself saying, and the American's eyes widen from one table away and then he glances away, looking a little hurt. The albino just looks - is that worry? He can never tell, he can't even remember his name, and his thoughts let slip 'India' and focus instead on the identity of the man beside him.

"I'm sorry, I've misplaced your name..."

"Gilbert," the man replies automatically, as if used to this question - or being forgotten, he doesn't know-_ah._

Ah, there's... someone else here, now - he didn't notice them before, isn't sure why, but they're sitting opposite the albino - _Gilbert _- leaving the space opposite himself - in direct line of sight of the American - the only place out of... place. He frowns at the 'newcomer', and there's something _more_ familiar about him - he doesn't understand, blast it all, what's going on?

"Matthew," the man supplies automatically, as if in the same position as Gilbert. "Yes, I have been here all along." He pushes something across the table towards him, a hand, to take or shake he doesn't know. "We're acquainted."

"Oh, uh-" Arthur feels slightly out of place taking this man's hand, not remembering him, but he says they know each other and he's strangely inclined to believe him. He smiles a little, nods, and shakes his hand.

"Good to make your acquaintance again, then, Matthew."

The smile he receives is tense, but he receives it nonetheless, and that counts for something, right?

Arthur retracts his hand, and notices that the American has got yet another bunch of fast food, and is _still staring at him_. He finds himself frowning, disapproving not of the staring but of the vast quantity of fast food he's consuming. Unbidden, he finds himself calling out to him.

"You'll kill yourself if you keep eating like that!"

At first the American looks pale - perhaps at being spoken to so suddenly by the man he keeps watching - but then he looks embarrassed, apparently having been eating without really realising he was doing it.

Matthew turns around and gestures to him, quietly. "Al, come sit with us. It'll be alright this time." He glances at Arthur, and then adds, "it's already too late."

_Well that's rather ominous, _Arthur thinks, but says nothing as the man 'Al' comes and takes the seat opposite him at last, tray of food being placed before him.

"Uh, hey." He inclines his head in greeting. "Al," he says, before adding, "that's me," as if clarifying it.

"I worked that much out for myself," Arthur quips, and the alb-Gilbert makes a sound almost like a snigger falling short. Gilbert himself glances towards the door, and then gets up.

"I gotta go - you'll be fine with these two," he adds, gesturing to the two men opposite him. He turns, and Arthur follows him with his eyes as he leaves by the glass entranceway. There's a long-haired man there, blonde, and a shorter man with dark hair, not quite a bob - the latter looks Asian, at least, and Arthur watches as they exchange a few words, glance back at him, and then leave.

Arthur turns back in his seat to note the two men scruitinising him - this is all various shades of weird and confusing and Arthur is a little sick of it right now, so he excuses himself and gets to his feet, muttering "lavatory" under his breath as he heads off to find it. He half expects one of them to follow him, but they don't, and he slips into there alone, finding a cubicle and locking it behind him.

_Dammit._ The worst thing is that he can't remember a damn bloody thing, and yet so much seems familiar to him. He wants time alone, to concentrate, but he has a feeing no-one is going to let him have that. He rubs at his forehead, ears pricking up to the sound of footsteps suddenly entering the bathroom.

"Arthur...?" The American's voice rings out and Arthur bites his lip, tempted not to answer out of spite.

"You followed me to the bathroom?" He asks instead, slight irritation creeping into his tone.

"Oh, uh..." At least he seems embarrassed, Arthur thinks, smugly, at the note of being told off that the American suddenly has in his tone. Arthur unlocks the door and steps out, frowning at him expectedly.

"We, ah-we're leaving now, so I just thought-"

"You could have told me this _after_ I left the bathroom, you know." He moves to examine himself in the mirror, running a finger across his thick eyebrows. Hm.

"Oh, well-I wanted to-make sure you were alright, I mean..."

Arthur sighs at his reflection and lowers his hands, washing them despite not needing to, just for an excuse to linger. "And how long do you intend to accompany me? Point me home and leave me be."

Al seems to pale again at his words, so he mutters an apology and adds, "look, it's not like I don't appreciate your help, but I need some time to think things over." This seems to worry the American yet further however, so he just moves over to the hand-dryer, muttering "forget it" as he does.

Al follows him, to the hand-dryer and then back out of the bathroom, where Arthur comes into contact with Matthew again. They seem to usher him out of the fast food restaurant, and Arthur vaguely wonders if Al finished that additional meal. Putting it out of his mind, however, he takes in the streets around him, not having been able to properly previously, being in a taxi at the time.

"We'll take you home," Matthew says, although for some reason Arthur has a sneaking suspicion that it won't be _his home_ at all - just another clinically fashioned apartment or house. He doesn't know why he thinks this, just that none of the places he can vaguely remember - seeing or being told about - were ever _his_ home, not really.

What was so bad about his home that he couldn't go back? It couldn't have been sold or anything, surely, his brothers-

"Brothers. I have brothers, do I not?" He glances between Matthew and Al searchingly. "Why aren't they here?"

"They... will be," Al manages at last, after an uncomfortable silence and various exchanged looks between himself and Matthew. "In time."

It doesn't sound very reassuring, so Arthur chooses not to believe it, and considers instead the merits or running for it now. As if reading his mind, Al goes to put a hand on Arthur's shoulder, and instead cedes to Matthew doing this instead.

"Come on," Matthew says, and he's ushered into yet another taxi, sat between Matthew and Al.

"This is... this city-"

"London." Al provides, stiffly, and Arthur wonders what's so wrong about saying 'London' now. "It'll always be London."

Arthur thinks this strange as well, but he's decided to just mark up these occurrences and think of them when he's _finally alone._

They reach a house some time later, or more like apartment, for the house is split in two, and by the fact that Al has two similar keys on his keyring when he unlocks the door for them, Arthur assumes that no - he'll never be alone because this bloody American is his _neighbour_.

He's shown around the stagnant side of the house - his side - before Matthew declares that he'll cook for them and then he has to leave. Al looks a little panicked at this, but he looks even more so when Arthur volunteers to help, and so both he and Al are shooed into the living room and sit beside each other on the sofa, staring at...

... the space where surely a television should be.

"That's an awfully interesting space there," Arthur quips dryly. "Shouldn't there be a television of sorts?"

He hears Al swallow, and then catches the small shake of his head from the corner of his eye. _Right._

"Any reason?"

Now a shake of the head, which half-way through turns into a nod.

"The news is shit recently," is his only answer, and Arthur resigns himself to that for the moment, before getting up to explore. Al doesn't stop him, but there's a suspicious lack of personal belongings, and it irritates him more and more as he explores his half of the house, finding a frustrating lack of memories. At last he gives a cry of annoyance, which is only tempered slightly by Al's apologetic, guilty look. Arthur resists the urge to turn on him, and instead grinds his words out between his teeth.

"What. The. Fuck. Is. Going. On?"

"I can't explain it all to you - it's... it's too soon, Arthur..."

The familiarity in his tone just serves to rile Arthur up more, and he snaps out his next sentence. "Who are _you?_ If you can't tell me who _I_ am, which is pretty stupid for someone who can't remember and wants to know, at least tell me who _you_ are! 'Al' is short for something, right? Tell me that, you bastard!"

Al - perhaps to his credit - only flinches once, at the end of Arthur's rant, and glances solemnly away. "I'm sorry," he says at last, and returns to the kitchen without another word.

Arthur takes a moment to fume alone, before Matthew's voice calls out that dinner is ready, and he stalks to the kitchen, having nothing else to do and being too irked to cause further disturbance without anyone to see.

To his surprise, Matthew has made pancakes, although neither Al nor Matthew seem too enthused by this creation, eating their portions slowly as Arthur idily tries to eat his. His thoughts - what there are of them - are preoccupied however, and he finds himself increasingly distant throughout dinner, not seeming even to be aware when Matthew finally ups and leaves. When he next looks up, he and Al are alone.

"He went home," Al supplies as he clears up the plates, including Arthur's unfinished one. "You should go to bed. I'm next door - knock if you want me."

Arthur finds himself nodding, faking a yawn as he climbs the stairs into the attic-esque room that is apparently his bedroom. He closes the bedroom door behind him, noting with interest that there's no lock, and re-examines his room. It's bland, impersonal and sparse of furnishings and belongings. There's an en-suite, fairly new, and a few toiletries such as a new toothbrush and paste; Arthur finds this odd in itself - surely if he lived here he'd have his own? But then again, he brought no luggage from the recovery home, and he has no identification either.

With a sigh, he undresses and goes about his business in the bathroom, emerging a few minutes later to hunt down some pyjamas - he finds some in a drawer, along with other clothes that are apparently his; as the pyjamas fit perfectly, he assumes they're his, and slips beneath the covers of his particularly bland (but nonetheless comfortable bed). It's not like the contents of his 'home' are terrible - but to him, it's starkingly obvious that they're not _his_.

Arthur stares, almost unseeing, at the ceiling. His thoughts won't focus enough to form any sort of sense in his mind, and he still can't remember a blasted clear thing. His eyes droop a few times, but something keeps him awake, almost as if he's waiting for something... and just as night fully settles in, he finds what he was unknowingly waiting for.

Up above him, in a faint, fading shimmer, are words, pale and turquoise. Arthur glances once at his bedroom door, glad that Al hasn't tried to check on him tonight, and slips out atop the covers, standing shakily on his bed so as to read them better. He has to tilt his head and shift into some very odd angles before he can fully comprehend what they shimmers are saying, moving as they are.

'_Back Bog'_

Arthur's almost constant frown deepens, and he blinks a few times in confusion. _What the actual fuck?_

It takes him a moment to register that - as the words were written in _here_, his room, and are the only interesting things in the room, then perhaps they were written by him, _for_ him, and _about_ something in this room. It takes him a further moment to realise that 'bog' is slang for 'toilet', and that that's the only thing he can think of.

'Back toilet' seems to be his only clue, so he pads off into the en-suite, bending by the toilet and peering behind it.

Nothing.

_Bloody marvelous._

Arthur curses silently, getting back to his feet. 'Back bog'... He glances over the toilet, and then on a whim lifts the lid of the system, behind the actual toilet bowl.

_Aha!_ Mystery solved - and by the looks of it, something is cleverly hidden within. Arthur reaches in a hand, grimacing, and pulls out a small plastic-sealed package from the water, replacing the system lid. He holds the bag in hand, closing the bathroom door and putting the lid down on the toilet so he can examine the contents of the bag.

He unseals it carefully, taking out a few laminated articles, a sealed note, and a sealed bag of... bullets. Arthur carefully sets _these_ aside, trepidation growing as he unseals the note and lifts it to his eyes. The writing is frightening familiar - with a sudden jolt he has no doubt that it is _his_, and the words are no more reassuring.

_'You are dead.'_

Arthur is pretty sure that he is _not_, and he doesn't particularly want that to come true, but he might as well keep reading.

_'I know you'll believe me - you'll remember as you read; you've read this many a time before._

_ Your name is Arthur Kirkland, but you had another name._

_ A more important name._

_ You were __**England.**__'_

Arthur blinks, and re-reads the sentence - something rings true about it, but he doesn't feel anything. If such an impossible thing were so, should he not know?

_'You don't understand, do you? You should be feeling something, should be connecting with something - but you won't._

_ You ruled the seas. You were the British Empire, and your might rang true and fierce. You were the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and you were proud of this, even though you were no longer an Empire._

_ You were still a superpower, with memories and a life and... a love._

_ You've met him, haven't you? I keep telling him to stay away, keep telling him that he'll make me remember if he stays close but he can't keep away._

_ You only see the message if you're beginning to remember, Arthur._

_ His name - not Al, though he may tell you such - is Alfred._

_ I think he thinks it's his duty to look after me, despite my not wanting it.'_

Alfred. _Alfred. _This is easier to understand than the rest of the words, and he clings onto that word, as if it were his lifeline.

_'He thinks that if he looks after me, I'll change my mind._

_ I gave him a choice, you see - let me live my life in obscurity, or..._

_ You've seen the bullets, right? There's articles with them. The bullets fit Alfred's gun - you notice that he's American? He's AmericA. The man who looks like him, Matthew, that's Canada._

_ You may have seen an albino, Gilbert. He's Prussia. The only reason he's bothering with us is because he knows how it feels._

_ We lost __**everything**_**, **_Arthur._

_ We are no longer "England"._

_ The same thing happened to our brothers - we became nothing, and I was left to hold on, clinging and always bloody holding on._

_ The other nations tried to step in to help us, but... I didn't refuse their help, but it was too late._

_ The last big push was done by America._

_ America took over our land._

_ We're still __**called**__ England, and Britain, and the UK. But we're not... a part of it any longer._

_ We have no monarchy. Our government is America's._

_ He's tried so hard to keep everything the same for us, for me._

_ I'm...'_

There were scrawls below, and some of the ink was smudged, and paper rippled, from either the toilet water or tears, Arthur didn't know.

_'Lost._

_ I'm not a nation, anymore._

_ We're just like Gilbert - tacked onto another nation because we don't want to fade and die like the Roman Empire._

_ Except..._

_ Take the bullets._

_ Alfred has a gun, as I mentioned._

_ He keeps it on him, but you can get it. He's too soft when it comes to us, I'm afraid._

_ Take it._

_ Everything we've ever been has... ended. We're basically human, but with benefits such as not dying, or aging, and being able to survive significant hurt._

_ As long as we're remembered, we live. (But what about the Roman Empire, you say? His time was up - he chose to go.)_

_ If we disappear, we have to be out of mind. Alfred has to let us go. He's clinging on, keeping as much of us still here, on our former land._

_ I'll keep doing this until he gets the message._

_ England is gone._

_ He faded away._

_ Let Arthur die too._

_ I'm sorry it had to come to this._

_ I'm so, truly sorry._

_ It's not enough for either of us, but... tell Alfred I love him.'_

Arthur swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat. He was supposed to - to what? He...

Numbly, he reached for the articles, to make sure of their relevancy and truth. Sure enough, however, the articles depicted the final days of England - himself - as an independent nation. Now it was just an add-on to America, looked after by it - him - although their people were gradually beginning to accept that they were now one.

There had been attempts - high up in American command, from the President himself (though beyond, Arthur thought, from Alfred) - to keep their people separate. For those from formerly-England (though still known as this in name) to still be known as Britons, Englishmen - to think of themselves as English and British, not Americans - but it had been twenty years and it had been in vain.

_Twenty years..._ _such an awfully long time to cling on._

Arthur couldn't read anymore. He put the articles back in the bag along with the note, took a bullet and replaced the bag in the toilet system.

He found himself leaving his room and walking to America's door, bullet clenched in one palm, reaching for the door. It opened of its own accord, however, and Al opened it, expression troubled. For the first time, Arthur noticed how tired he looked - there was dark lines under his eyes, and it looked as if he'd been waiting up.

"Come in," he mumbled gruffly, and Arthur shuffled in, in pyjamas still. "Put the bullet on the table, please."

Arthur blinked, sat down on the sofa and kept his hands clenched closed. Al sat opposite him, speaking wearily.

"I know you've got it. Let me speak to you, _please._"

Arthur felt perhaps he owed him that, but he wasn't giving the bullet up so soon, sitting stubbornly opposite him. Al sighed.

"No surprise there, I guess..." He leant back in his own chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Before you say anything... I try. I try to keep you close without you remembering me or anything, so I can still see you and look after you and... and maybe-but you keep doing stupid things, like finding bullets and shooting yourself. It makes you forget again, do you know that? I know you don't want to remember, but... I need you, Ar-England."

Arthur found himself flinching at this, a instinctual reaction. Alfred looked pained.

"Arthur, I..." He swallowed heavily. "Do you not remember any of the last time you... we were... I managed to keep you around for... you remembered, after six months, and-I thought... I thought you were okay, and that we could-we..." Al closed his eyes, squeezing back tears. "I-I had you for a year before-before..."

Arthur fights down the urge to comfort him, strong and unheeded.

"I can't stand it. But... I'm... I'm _never_ going to give up, Artie!" The sudden determined expression was accompanied by Alfred opening his eyes. "I'm here for you, don't you see? I-I'm never going to just forget about you. It's been twenty years but I'm never going to stop-I'd do another twenty, even a _century_! A millennium, Arthur; I'm not... not giving up on you. Sometimes it doesn't feel like it, but..." His voice quietens a little. "It would hurt more to lose you than go through this again and again."

Arthur bites his lip, and glances aside, bullet digging into his palm.

"I remember you... Alfred. I remember it _now_, and... you have to let me go. I don't remember all the times I've remembered and forgotten, but I remember _you_. I, heh... could barely forget." He glances at Alfred again, holding his gaze. "But you have to let me go."

Alfred shakes his head fiercely, before he can finish the sentence, knowing what he's going to say. "Never-_never._ Why can you never understand that, old man?"

Arthur gives a slight, wry smile. "Maybe I'm going senile."

The quip seems to be too much for Alfred, for he gives a pained cry and lunges across to the sofa - initially Arthur thinks he wants the bullet, but he's suddenly being hugged as if his life depends on it, and then there are kisses spread across his face and what _sounds_ like Alfred _crying_, and-

Arthur gives in, slipping the bullet beneath the sofa and kissing Alfred back, unable to take it any longer. Their lips merge and he thinks he hears something that sounds like "if you love me why do you keep doing this I love you I love you I love you" and he feels his heart tearing. Kissing soon progresses to the hastened removal of clothes, and everything is a mash of tears and murmured "I love you"s from Alfred, and then there's heat against his skin, and Alfred is asking Arthur to be in him, to be connected with him again - and how can he refuse, when he knows he could return every 'I love you' from Alfred.

He prepares Alfred with gentle fingers, listening to every one of his moans, whispering meaningless things to him as he finally slips in, and they move like water on the sofa, connected and without worries beyond this for this moment; just together, as if this was all they'd ever need. At last, they both reach their completion, almost in unison, crying out mindlessly, and Al pants and clings to Arthur tighter once he's pulled out, as if afraid he'll disappear.

Arthur realises with a start, in this once-perfect moment, that he is not brave enough for this.

He's never been a coward, but this is too much for him to bear, even with Alfred by his side.

Even with the might and care of America holding him up, he can't stand this.

And he fears... fears that he'll break America like this - and he doesn't want him to have to let him go, or get to a point where he just gives up, but...

Arthur wonders, idily, as he listens to Alfred's heartbeat and Al murmurs about his; whether when he next wakes up and remembers, how long it would have been since now.

He thinks that he only lasted so long last time because of Alfred - wonders what pushed him over the edge again - wonders how long Alfred will cry this time, or whether he'll cry at all.

Alfred's murmurings slowly turn to sleepy noises, exhausted from worry and exertion, and Arthur whispers something about "bathroom", and slips from his slackening arms.

_I'm so, truly sorry._

Arthur ducks down, nimbly picking up the bullet from beneath the sofa as he looks around for Alfred's jacket - inside is the gun, he finds, as he searches it. He wonders vaguely if Alfred will lament his stupidity or whether he knew this would happen all along and is fed up of preventing it - if he wants to... die, almost, _that_ much, then surely he is not the right Arthur for him.

'You'll always be the right Arthur,' a voice in his head provides, somewhere between American and his own - but he blocks it out, slipping the perfectly-fitting bullet into the gun and cocking it.

Arthur turns as Alfred stirs suddenly into life, eyes wide and frightened in the dim light of the room, both of them naked and all brief happiness gone from Alfred's face.

Arthur lifts the gun, pressing it to his temple, where it stings, where he's put it many times before, and speaks his last words - for now - as Alfred lunges.

"I love you."

The last words he hears, in the short split-second between the trigger and falling into sharp darkness, are the words of America calling the name of a nation that no longer lives.


	2. Epilogue

_**A/N: **I felt the need to write this shortly after I finished this story. I wasn't going to do this, and I don't know if it cheapens it, but perhaps I'm just a sucker for happier endings._

* * *

**Epilogue**

America felt that he had endured this his entire life. It was one thing to pretend not to love the man who'd both helped him become an 'adult' and forgiven him for what the other nation had deemed a betrayal - it was another to watch him try to end his life time after time.

It was... the worst time in his life, and he didn't think anything but the extinction of all life on the planet could top it.

America had tried to look after him - he'd kept his people safe, and had never stopped doing that, although he had always insisted that they be _England's._ In fact, as much as his capacity as 'Al' had been performed time after time, his capacity as America had needed work. So he'd done what he'd never wanted to, in the hope of providing the solution he had hoped for since day one.

England had - unfortunately - been finally kept away from everyone, surrounded by humans, in the obscurity he'd wanted. But America knew where he was, always, and he would rescue him just as soon as the deal went through.

Which was _now._

America stood off to the side as his President shook hands with the new Prime Minister of Britain. He watched as the reinstated monarchy received cheers from the crowd, and revelled in the relief that came with finally being able to do something _right._

It hadn't been easy - that's why it had taken over twenty years, and without England's help it had been worse. The sense of connection England's people had once had had become terse, a thin string compared to that which America had with his own people.

To be honest, he'd also concentrated too much on _Arthur_, and not enough on _England._

England had needed just as much looking after as Arthur did, even now, and now America was finally able to say with - not pride, they'd all suffered too much for that - finality that the future of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland was secured.

He'd pulled every string he could, called on every favour, even - ugh - almost _begged_ some countries like Russia and China. _Nothing_ was below his dignity when it came to saving England. He'd loaned money and invested shitloads of _everything_ and he'd finally - _finally!_ - done it.

England could be saved now.

America almost runs to England's recovery centre, too impatient to wait for a car or anything - he must feel this, surely, and he would have brought him with him but he was irreparably terrified that something would go wrong and England would-

- and he'd see it, all in front of his eyes again, worse and worse each time.

But as he reaches the centre, has it in sight, Japan walks out and behind him follows France, and... England.

And...

America nearly cries - England and France are bickering, more lightly than they would have, but they're arguing and England is-he's...

America can almost feel his presence from here, his reinstated presence of a nation - he's not sure whether to smile or cry so he does both at once; and it's very hard to run like this but he doesn't care.

England sees him, beams, brightly and proudly and meets him half way, squeezing him as tight as he can and making a sound that once wouldn't have been laughter, but now he's carefree and it _is_.

America thinks, then, that everything has been - not exactly _worth_ it, he wouldn't call the pain worth anything - almost planned to lead up to this moment because he was never, _ever_ going to let him die, not for real, not forever.

They pull back only a little from each other, just enough for England to say "I love you, America", and for America to beam brightly in response, unable to formulate any words save one.

_"England,"_ he says, and he kisses England's smile because at last it's true.


End file.
